


Inside

by magikspell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Fluff, Humor, Insecurity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Being inside someone. Feeling someone inside you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Inside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714481) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



Taking Sherlock to bed for the first time was akin to wrangling a feral cat into a crate. It was John's arms wrapped around his squirming body, holding him still long enough to transport him from kitchen to hallway to bedroom. Like a toy car wound up and released, Sherlock was bursting with boundless energy, with momentum, with excitement he hadn't a clue what to do with, panting hot breath against John's neck and allowing himself to be steered with stumbling feet across the flat.

In bed, it was gasping breaths and grasping fingers, was Sherlock squeezing John's hips with his thighs and John placing a gentle hand against his chest, holding him still.

It was Sherlock whinging about how he didn't have all day and--

"I'll admit I'm not the most experienced with the practical application of sex, but surely this process requires a minimum of mindless dawdling--"

and

" _Honestly_ , John, I'm not a blushing bride--"

and

"Is this much kissing entirely necessary--"

and

"You'll want to trust me when I say that there's an important experiment running in the kitchen that _requires_ attention in approximately thirty-eight--"

"Oh. _**Oh**_."

A hand around his cock shut him up, and in that first moment, when skin met warm, damp skin, Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful man John Watson had ever seen. Eyes wide, lips parted, a puff of breath escaping _that mouth_. John wanted to swallow him whole, wanted to _consume_ him, to take him apart piece by piece until he was nothing but a wet, squirming mess.

"All right, then," Sherlock said on an inhale, his voice coming out high-pitched and strangled-gaspy.

John kissed him firmly on the mouth, lined himself up alongside Sherlock, and began to thrust, fingers grasped loosely around the both of them.

The entire process was unusually _wet_ and over in an alarmingly short period of time. John thrusted and stroked for four and a half minutes and watched as Sherlock rapidly went through the sexual response cycle--breath coming quicker and quicker, skin going red and blotchy, eyes squeezing shut, and without much warning other than a surprised jerk, coming with a single, punctuated _uhh_ and a punched-in-the-gut exhale.

It was embarrassing and silly and precious and infinitely more arousing than any well-crafted pornographic orgasm sequence could ever be. John sucked at Sherlock's right cheek, thrust half a dozen more times into the sticky mess on Sherlock's lower abdomen and...

 _ **saw stars**_.

...

"Well," Sherlock said afterwards, once they were lying on their backs on either side of the bed, staring at the ceiling and catching their breaths.

John scratched at the drying semen on his stomach and _hmmm_ ed in response.

"That was..."

"Yes."

" _Surprisingly_..."

" _Mm_." John rolled his head sideways on the pillow and looked over at Sherlock, watching his profile until the other man caught on and turned to look at him.

They shared a slow smile before breaking out into huffs of boyish laughter.

...

Later, Sherlock climbed off the bed and stretched. John watched the smooth planes of his chest, his flat stomach [streaked with dried semen missed on the casual wipe-down], and his flaccid, pink penis [that John had touched; John had touched, stroked, come on and _with_ a _man_ and--]...

"My experiment," Sherlock said, mouth quirked, catching John staring. "I need to..."

"Yes." John cleared his throat. "Of course. Go and check your..."

"Tonsils."

"Ton--sils." A pause. "Wait, _tonsils_?" John rubbed a hand over his face. Against his palm, he groaned, laugh-groaned, feeling just so, so stupidly, unbearably--

Hands grabbed at his, tugged. John looked up to see Sherlock had come round the side of the bed, was peering down into his eyes, looking _just so, so stupidly, unbearably_ \--

Sherlock kissed him, a slow, achingly slow, warm press of a kiss that sent tingling tendrils of heat down John's chest and into the pit of his stomach.

...

Sherlock wasn't a particularly sexual boyfriend [ _boyfriend_? partner?]. When he didn't have a case on, he liked kissing just a bit--sweet, wet little kisses on the sofa or in the kitchen whilst the kettle boiled--but he wasn't one for mindless shagging, for blowjobs in the shower or for handjobs in front of the telly or for an hour of Saturday afternoon fucking because it felt good and there was nowhere else to be.

"What's the _point_?" Sherlock asked one morning, a month in, leaning back against the mattress as John attempted some semblance of beginner's fellatio. 

John kissed his thigh and nuzzled at his shower-damp tufts of pubic hair. He smiled. "I want to make you feel good."

"What for?"

"Because I'm really quite fond of you, believe it or not."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked about suspiciously. After a moment, he sighed. "Carry on, then, but do hurry up. I've a lot to do tod-- _aaaah_."

John smiled around the head of Sherlock's cock.

...

It was true that Sherlock found sex as mere pleasurable fun to be a pointless waste of time, but that didn't mean that he and John didn't have a semi-regular sex life. They did. John found himself tugging or being tugged into the bedroom once a week--had gasping, panting, warm, sweaty sex that left him kiss-bruised and drained. 

Sherlock was unbelievably hot once he built up his confidence in sex. He'd straddle John's thighs on the bed, lean forwards with one hand braced on the mattress, and stroke the two of them to a shaking, crushing climax, eyes never leaving John's, mouth uttering low, bitten-off groans that were enough to send John over the edge from sound alone. He'd give enthusiastic blowjobs, fingers digging into John's glutes, mouth a wet, slick, slurping channel into which John poured out his tension. He'd kiss John's mouth, bite at his lips, and just _sigh_ \--endlessly--under the covers and in the dark, arms wrapped around John's torso, the two of them rubbing against each other into a long, wet release.

Afterwards, they'd curl up together, breathing against flushed, sweaty skin--breaths that meant, "Yes," and "I like you a lot, in fact," and "I'm really rather happy to be with you."

So if they didn't have Bored Sex or Morning Sex or We've Got Nothing Else On Sex, it only meant that the sex they did have was _significant_ , somehow. About this sex, Sherlock never asked, "What's the _point_?" 

...

As both Sherlock and John were rather new to the sex they were having, they initially kept their activities as uncomplicated as possible. For weeks they limited themselves to frottage and handjobs, only venturing out into oral sex when Sherlock asked John over their tea one morning, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, "What are your thoughts on fellatio?"

When John arrived home from the surgery that evening, Sherlock barely allowed him time to remove his jacket before ushering him into the bedroom and shutting the door.

"Take off your clothes," he said, kicking off his own shoes and undoing his flies.

...

Despite his dismissal of sex he deemed pointless, Sherlock was ever-enthusiastic about experimentation and practise. 

"Don't come yet," Sherlock said on that first night of fellatio, pressing against John's hips with his forearm and wrapping his lips once more around his cock. 

John gripped at the bedsheets and gritted his teeth. "That's not something you can just... _say_ while you're...sucking my--"

Sherlock pressed down harder on John's hips, as if attempting to hold him back from orgasm. He pulled off for a moment and brushed his parted lips over his weeping glans. " _Don't_ ," he murmured, glancing up at John with a pointed look. "Now, I'm going to attempt to take you in further. Memorise the sensations. I'll have you describe them to me after you achieve orgasm." He nodded towards his laptop, which was perched on the bedside table.

With a groan, John let go of the bedsheets and crossed both arms over his face.

...

As much as Sherlock valued regular sexual scientific inquiry, even going so far as to record John's approximate semen discharge volume following a variety of scenarios and techniques [ _the small measuring beaker on the nightstand: £3; the image of Sherlock spitting John's come into said small measuring beaker: priceless_ ], he was unusually hesitant to try intercourse.

"I want to fuck you. Can I fuck you?" John whispered one evening, hooking his arms around Sherlock's knees and pressing his legs towards his chest. He moved in slowly, insinuating himself between Sherlock's thighs and bending to suck a muted pink spot into the skin of his sweaty neck.

Sherlock ran the tips of his fingers across John's nape and breathed steadily, in, out, in, out.

"Hm?" John asked again. He kissed at Sherlock's throat and dragged his mouth upwards, towards Sherlock's chin, to his bottom lip, where he planted an affectionate peck. 

Sherlock studied him quietly, absently tightening and loosening the grip of his knees around John's torso. "What would you do?" he asked, voice muffled against John's lips as the other man rubbed their noses together.

John pulled back and smiled. He freed his left arm from where it was hooked around Sherlock's knee and began to drag his fingers along the soft, smooth skin of the back of Sherlock's thigh, near the swell of his arse. "Don't tell me the Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know about fucking," he flirted, leaning down once more to kiss at the corner of his mouth. He could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes at him.

" _Mmff_." Sherlock turned his head out of the kiss. " _Of course_ I know about..." He paused.

John slid his fingers closer and closer to the cleft of Sherlock's arse, to where it was warmest. He watched Sherlock's face whilst biting back a grin, silently challenging him to say it, to say--

"Fucking." 

_Christ_. The word _alone_ made John's cock leak. He felt a stringy drip of precome weep from his body, onto the skin of Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock tried to act unfazed. He shifted a bit when John's fingers slipped into the cleft of his arse and began to stroke gently at the hot skin, the damp hair. His breath went laboured. " _Inothk_ \--" [Scramble. Head shake. Hard blink.] "I know the theory and the...the..." 

John's fingers crept closer and closer to Sherlock's most vulnerable part.

"Pratkist. Praskist." [Pause. Frustrated grumble.] " _Practise_."

" _Pratkist_." John moved his fingers away and stroked them back up Sherlock's thigh, breaking into a wide, teasing grin. "Praskist?"

" _Shut up_ ," Sherlock said petulantly, shoving at John's chest and twisting around, freeing himself from where he was pinned. 

His face became impossibly red, and John couldn't help but kiss every inch of it once he had Sherlock sprawled atop him and rocking gently against his thigh.

"Some other time," Sherlock said against John's stubbly cheek, doing his best to return the affectionate kisses whilst chasing the delicious tingle-burn between his legs as he _pressed_ , rubbed, _pressed_.

...

A different night, under the veil of both darkness and sheets, John inched his hands down the back of Sherlock's pants and took gentle fistfuls of his flesh, squeezing at his arse, tugging hips to hips, hard cock to, _Jeeeeesus_ , hard cock.

Sherlock wheezed and pushed up on his elbows, reveling in the sensation as his cheeks parted slightly with John's tugs, his warm, damp, private skin exposed to cool air.

"Let's get you out of these," John said, sliding one hand from his pants and using it to tug them down Sherlock's arse until they rested in a little bunched twist at mid-thigh. He surged upwards, kissed Sherlock once, and _hmm_ ed. "That's it."

A finger traced the cleft of Sherlock's arse, sliding up and down, slowly, stroking across fuzzy hairs and textured, sweat-slick skin.

"That's... _hmm_ ," John murmured, applying more pressure, slipping his middle finger downwards until it rested in Sherlock's interglutial cleft.

Sherlock swallowed audibly around a pant. "Wha--?"

John smiled, open-mouthed, looking up at Sherlock, watching his eyes squeeze shut, his tongue dart out to lick at his lips. "It's just..." [Pause. Little laughter-puff out the nose.] "You've got the same parts as everybody else." He stroked his finger up and down, rubbing across the warm, wet little spot that led to--

"I've--" Sherlock flushed [John could feel it--the heat rising in his skin]. " _Of course_ I have..." He dropped his head down and buried his face in John's neck.

John slid his free hand between their bodies and grabbed at their cocks, beginning a slow, careful series of strokes. He puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath, closing his eyes and reveling in the sensation. "I know you have," he whispered, choked. "You're just... _Sherlock Holmes_."

Sherlock shifted a bit atop John, seeking out a better angle for abortive thrusts into his fist. He gave him a quizzical look with his eyes whilst dropping open his mouth, breath coming out in warm, damp puffs that grazed John's face.

John rubbed his finger up and down inside the cleft of Sherlock's arse, pausing on the upstroke to press gently against his tight ring of muscle, which pulsed open and closed rhythmically with Sherlock's little erratic thrusts into John's fist.

"Is it all right if I touch you here?" John asked, breathless.

Sherlock pushed up on one elbow and gave a frustrated little _uuh_ , shoving a hand down between their bodies to help out with the stroking which just really, really wasn't enough. Not now. Not with--

John removed his finger from Sherlock's arse and brought it up to wet it with saliva, slipping his digit into his mouth and sucking once, twice, before moving it back down again, sliding it back in place.

Sherlock keened and shook, knees trembling where they framed John's like parentheses. "That's, ah. That's..." His brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked positively appalled.

" _Hm_?" John slid his spit-slick finger over Sherlock's entrance, pressing the very tip against the muscled resistance.

" _This morning_. I haven't bathed since--"

"You're fine." 

"But it's--" [John felt Sherlock's skin grow warmer, still, felt his arsehole clench, felt a dribble of his precome leak onto the fist John had wrapped around him.] "It's quite..." Sherlock gasped like he'd been kicked. " _Unsanitary_."

John slid his finger further down, all the way through and out of Sherlock's cleft and back behind his balls. He pressed down gently with one finger, then two, stroking his other hand up and down the shaft of Sherlock's cock. "Sex is..." [ _Jeeeesus_ , Sherlock.] "Sex is messy." He bit back a cry, huffing through his nose at the sensation of Sherlock working him in his fist.

Sherlock hummed, hooking his free arm under John's neck and tugging their heads closer together. 

And there, through panting and groaning, sloppy kissing, Sherlock whispered to John, his words broken and breathy, the bacteria that could be passed through oral-anal contact if the partner hadn't recently washed.

John laughed against his mouth and slid his hand up to focus more attention on Sherlock's weeping glans. 

_This man. This annoying, infuriating, lovely man._ Worried about hygiene. Embarrassed about--

Sherlock's hips shifted, thrust, and John pressed and tugged, stroking at his cock with one hand and nudging against his perineum with the other.

"That's it," John whispered, pushing his own hips upwards. "Come on."

As Sherlock continued talking, he took great, gasping breaths, and _hmmmff_ ed between words.

"Next time, I should... I'll need to--" Sherlock pressed his open mouth against John's jaw and panted, sucked. "Shower and--"

Abruptly, John slid his hand back up and pressed his finger against Sherlock's opening, which was still wet with sweat and John's saliva. He felt Sherlock huff against his face, beyond talking now, nearing the edge.

"Is it all right if I...?" John pressed down on the ring of muscle, seeking entrance. "Can I...?"

" _Mmmmff_ ," Sherlock grumbled, jerking his hips.

John waited for him to open, for the muscle to relax for a beat, and slid his finger tip inside, just up to the first knuckle, just the littlest bit of John inside the littlest bit of Sherlock.

"Oh. _**Oh**_."

At the breach alone, at the connection, Sherlock immediately spurted, coughing and choking, pulsing out onto John's stomach and fist. His arsehole contracted rhythmically around John's fingertip, and John groaned at the sensation, imagining his cock up there, imagining the squeezing, the pulsing, the rippling heat, the--

He came apart to Sherlock's last few erratic jerks at his cock, to the puddle of drool on his shoulder and the warm streaks of come on his belly, on his fist, and in his pubic hair. To the residual spasms around the tip of his middle finger and Sherlock's tired little, " _Oh_ ," his puffs of breath.

...

Sherlock was a warm weight on his chest afterwards, a too-heavy, sharp-angled, sweaty thing with messy hair and stroking, tickling fingers.

" _Hmmff_ ," he murmured after several moments, twisting around and tugging at John's hand, removing the digit from his arse. He rolled off of John and stretched out on his back.

"Wash your hands," he said, yawning.

John laughed--a little breathy, huffy laugh--and rolled over to kiss at Sherlock's cheek. "Did you like it?"

"Go and wash your hands, and bring back a flannel."

...

It was endearing to John that Sherlock was in any sense embarrassed by his body. After all, this was the man who cared not at all about leaving vials of his own semen in the freezer alongside John's pint of ice cream and who carelessly made a mess of the bathroom floor on each rare and random occasion he felt the need to trim his pubic hair. He showed no discomfort with having his penis touched and licked, even that very first time, and seemingly without embarrassment, he regularly came all over himself and John.

Anything bum-related, however, sent him red-faced and squirming.

After the finger incident, Sherlock began asking John whether anal contact was planned for the evening so that he would know to shower beforehand [ _Romantic!_ ].

"It's just body stuff, Sherlock," John murmured once, a couple of weeks on, pushing back his thigh and kissing, licking behind his balls, moving downwards. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."

Sherlock huffed. "I'm _not_ embarrassed, John. I'm considerate."

" _You're_ considerate?" John teased. "When, in your whole life, have you _ever_ been considerate?"

"Many sexual acts are quite appalling, you know," Sherlock continued, ignoring the question. "Take analingus, for example."

" _Oooh_ , take analingus for example." John licked down towards the cleft of Sherlock's arse. 

"When you think about it, it's... It's, uh..."

John's mouth was hot and wet as it kissed, licked at Sherlock's salty skin. He used his forearms to press Sherlock's thighs closer to his chest, moving his bum up for easier access. " _Mm._ You were saying?" he whispered, pressing his tongue just a few centimetres away from Sherlock's opening, right over the place where the skin began to wrinkle and toughen with muscle.

Sherlock took a moment to come back to himself, and when he did, it was merely with a weak, ineffectual, "Yes. It's... _quite_...a bit, uh."

John smirked, huffed a laugh, and pressed his mouth right over Sherlock's hot, damp entrance. 

"Keep going," he murmured against skin, sliding a hand from Sherlock's thigh to his cock. He began to stroke, slow, careful strokes, up and down, as he licked and sucked at Sherlock's arsehole.

"Oh, it's... _Extremely_ unsanitary in certain...situa-- _**Oh**_." Sherlock's thighs trembled at the sensation, at the feel of a mouth sucking, a wet tongue wriggling against such an intimate part of his body. 

"What situations?" John asked, pulling back before diving in again, pressing his tongue against the muscle and breathing out a puff of hot air when he began to work himself inside. The cleft of Sherlock's arse was becoming wet with saliva from John's ministrations, the usually-fuzzy hairs flattened against Sherlock's skin.

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said around a gasp. "Something. Possibly...unimportant." 

With a sigh, he wrapped one arm around the back of his own knee and pulled it further into his chest, giving John better access. "Very, very unimportant right now."

John hummed in agreement and took his hand from Sherlock's cock in order to spread him open further. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, placing a single kiss to the back of his thigh before moving back down.

Sherlock didn't tell him to stop.

...

When they were finished, Sherlock having come, shouting, with John's tongue up his arse and a hand wrapped round his cock [before shoving John on his back and giving him a sloppy, fevered blowjob], John curled up against Sherlock's chest and kissed right above his nipple.

"All right?" he asked, sliding his hand down and rubbing at the warm, fuzzy skin below Sherlock's navel.

" _Mm_. Fine."

"You...enjoyed yourself?"

"It was _satisfactory_." The faux-petulant tone was there, lurking beneath his words. 

John wanted to fuck it away.

...

"Tell me how you feel about intercourse," he said one evening [a bit awkwardly, if he's honest], as he waited for the kettle to boil and watched Sherlock examine strands of hair beneath the microscope. They'd been having sex for nearly four months by then, and rimming and other forms of anal-contact had become a regular item on their sexual menu.

" _Case_ , John," Sherlock responded. "You know I don't have sex while I'm working."

The kettle clicked, and John set about making two mugs of tea while he spoke. "In general. What are your feelings about it in general?"

"I have none."

John sighed, pouring water over the teabags. "Would you like to try it?"

"I assume you mean you penetrating me." Sherlock moved away from his microscope and began scribbling down notes in his Moleskine.

"That's negotiable." John pursed his lips. 

"But you've done it before."

"With women, yes."

"And you want to penetrate me." Sherlock turned around in his seat and stared at John, watched him with narrowed, studying eyes.

John stared right back and licked his lips.

"You _really_ want to penetrate me." Sherlock smirked. "You're becoming aroused right now, just thinking of it."

"Keen." John took one tea mug by the handle and dragged it on the countertop in a slow circle.

They stared at each other for a long, silent moment, Sherlock biting and rebiting his lip, watching as if reading words scrawled across John's skin. John took a sip of tea, nearly burning his palate.

"Fine," Sherlock said, abruptly, immediately turning right back to his microscope. "When we haven't got a case on."

John walked over and kissed the back of Sherlock's neck. "Fine," he mirrored.

...

If John thought he had ever before seen Nervous Sherlock, he was mistaken. 

Nervous Sherlock, he came to realize, wasn't pacing Sherlock or petulant Sherlock or Sherlock-steeple-posed-on-the-sofa. Nervous Sherlock was

**Tonight, John. Might need  
some food first. SH**

and

**Nothing gastrologically  
distressing. SH**

and

**Will shower after dinner. SH**

and

__**What are your thoughts on condoms?  
** **According to your medical records,  
you're free of STIs. SH**

and

**Could be messy, though. Condoms  
this time, I think. SH**

and

__**Per year, approximately how many  
** **of your patients visit with  
complaints of anal fissures? SH**

and

__**Have been reading up on semen  
** **removal following unprotected  
** **anal intercourse. Definitely  
** **condoms this time. SH**

and

__**Purchased lube and condoms.  
** **Also purchased cucumbers for  
** **unrelated experiment. Might  
** **have been a bad decision. SH**

and

**Preferred position? SH**

and

__**How long will this take?  
** **May begin new experiment  
today. SH**

received all at once when John checked his phone after work.

When he arrived home an hour later with Chinese and a case of beer, Sherlock was seated on the sofa, typing on his laptop at warp speed.

"It isn't unusual for men to be unable to orgasm whilst penetrated," he said in lieu of a greeting. "Many have reported even losing their erection upon breach of the anal canal."

"Sexy talk," John murmured, arranging the food on the coffee table.

"Just delivering the facts."

...

Sherlock scrubbed himself practically raw in the shower, something John noted with a frown as he watched the man parade about the kitchen in nothing but a too-short towel, his skin a rosy pink and his damp hair hanging in his face. 

Sherlock glared at him and took the cup of tea he was offered. "Let's begin," he said around the lip of the mug. "I've got a fresh batch of bovine saliva in the refrigerator, and I'd really like to examine it before it coagulates."

John blinked twice. "Again with the sexy talk."

"Hmm. Sarcasm."

"Sarcasm, indeed." John took a slow drink of tea. 

And oh, but the romance didn't end there. 

In bed, following a handful of tea-flavoured kisses and a graceless bit of stripping, Sherlock immediately stretched out on his belly [after straightening the array of condoms and lubricant tubes he'd placed on the bedside table] and folded his arms under his chin, settling in as if to sleep.

John curled up beside him and placed a hand on his lower back. "All right?" he asked, using his fingers to stroke Sherlock's cool, shower-damp skin. He examined his prone body, watching the gentle shifting of his back as he inhaled, exhaled, taking in the sight of that one large curl flattened against the back of his neck, the knobs of his spine, the pinpricks of faint freckles sprinkled across his skin.

A grumbling came from near the headboard. "Obviously."

"We don't have to do this, you know. Or you could do me, if you wanted."

Sherlock pushed up on his elbows and turned to give John a look, one that said so clearly, "Why would you think I'd ever want to insert my penis into another person's anus?"

"Fuck me," he said, firmly, dropping back flat against the mattress and sliding an arm down underneath his body to take his cock in hand.

...

"Tell me if you want me to stop," John said, gently sliding a lubed finger into Sherlock's arsehole, just up to the second knuckle. He stroked his finger in a slow circle, feeling out the warm, slick walls of muscle, before pulling out and applying more lube. "At any point."

Sherlock mumbled something indistinguishable and wriggled his arse. "Get on with it."

"You know, you could try and be at least somewhat romantic about this," John said, moving back in with a finger so lube-coated that a glob slid out of Sherlock's hole and dripped down onto his balls.

" _Romance_. What, precisely, is meant to be romantic about anal intercourse?"

John rolled his eyes and kissed the smooth expanse of Sherlock's lower back, the warm skin of his incorrigible boyfriend. "Us," he said, slipping in a second finger and gently, so, so gently, twisting it, along with the first, inside the hot, tight channel. "Together." Kiss. "Connected."

Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Being inside someone. Feeling someone inside you." John's fingers made a slightly embarrassing, wet, _squelllch_ sound as he worked them in and out, slowly at first, _so, so slowly_ , and then a bit faster as he felt Sherlock's muscles relax, felt the passage seem to widen a bit, walls no longer tough and unyielding, clamping down on John's fingers like a vise, but softer, spongier.

He slid in a third finger, working it alongside the others, stroking, pressing, searching, and--

" _Hhhhh_." An exhale, a quick squeeze around John's fingers.

"How's that?" John asked, kissing Sherlock's back once more and giving him a few gentle thrusts.

"Fine." Sherlock sounded choked, voice high-pitched and breathy. 

John grinned and moved his fingers in and out several more times, using his other hand to rub at Sherlock's lower back, coaxing him to relax. 

...

When John extracted his fingers a few moments later, Sherlock twisted around and looked back, wincing as he watched John stroke himself with fingers shiny-slimy-slick with lubricant from Sherlock's arse. 

Sharing, reusing lubricant. From Sherlock's body to John's. _So, so_ very--

"Sometimes..." Sherlock began, mumbling, his brow furrowed whilst he watched John slide fingers over his cock, stroking himself to full hardness. "Sometimes there can be--"

"Shut up," John said, wrapping his right arm around Sherlock's waist from behind and dragging a wet, open-mouthed kiss down the knobs of his spine as he masturbated. 

"I didn't... This time, I didn't use..." Sherlock huffed, feeling the erotic skim of John's teeth and tongue, lips, against his skin. "There are procedures I can perform before we..."

"No," John said, muffled but with authority, sucking little kisses down the top of the cleft of Sherlock's arse, pausing before reaching his lube-covered entrance.

He pulled back, swiped messy fingers on the corner of a bedsheet, and tapped at Sherlock's hip to get him to turn. While Sherlock manoeuvred himself around, John snatched a condom from the bedside table, tore it from the packet, and wrestled it onto his penis, somehow, despite all residual slipperiness and happy-nervous trembles.

"If penetration is particularly deep," Sherlock continued, ignoring completely John's previous admonition, "sometimes there can be--"

"Shut. Up." John said, stretching himself over Sherlock's body and kissing him gently on the lips once, twice, the second with a playful little " _mmmuh_."

Sherlock _hmmph_ ed, annoyed, and John swooped down to kiss him again, to kiss away that little pout.

"I _am_ a doctor, you know," he said, moving down to suck at Sherlock's neck.

"But--"

"There is absolutely nothing that could happen here..." John paused, considering [this _was_ Sherlock, after all]. "There is _almost_ nothing that could happen here that would bother me." He pushed up, supported by his elbows, and watched Sherlock's face.

Sherlock swallowed and reached his arms around John's torso. "What if I--"

"You won't."

"But what if--"

John huffed a laugh and dropped, flattening himself once more against Sherlock and burying his face in his neck. He groaned in faux-exasperation. "Do you seriously think that would scare me off? You're thinking about..." he wiggled his eyebrows in place of saying it, "...and all I'm thinking about is how very badly I want to know how you feel inside." The last bit was whispered, was pressed right against the curve of Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock panted a little at that, in spite of himself, and rubbed the pads of his fingers against the skin of John's back, over his ribs. "What if it isn't good?" he asked, distracted, rolling his head to the side.

John lowered his eyebrows, confused, and pushed back up onto his elbows, against the resistance of Sherlock's squeezing arms. "What?"

Sherlock sighed and reluctantly moved his head back to face John. His cheeks were red. He was _embarrassed_. He was--

"My body," he said, blowing out a stream of air from his nostrils. "It isn't..." He stroked at John's spine, absently, and bit at his bottom lip. "I'm a man, and I'm not... No one's ever wanted to..."

 _His cheeks were red. He was **embarrassed**. He was_ stammering. He was--

"No one's ever been inside me."

John shifted his weight until he was resting on just one elbow and gripped Sherlock's hip with the other--his bony hip, his bone, his skin, his body.

John knew this, of course, that Sherlock was inexperienced, that before him he'd never gone further than confusing, fevered kisses against the dirty wall in a drug den, a hand passing by the front of his trousers on its way to his pocket [a glass vial tucked away, safe and sound]. He knew he was the only one to touch his bare skin, to kiss his chest, his cock, to hold him whilst he came in long, shuddering waves.

_No one's ever wanted to... No one's ever been inside me._

Inside.

[What does it mean to be _inside_ a person?]

John stroked his palm up Sherlock's side, feeling his ribs, the occasional bump of a mole, the shiny, silk-smooth indentation of a scar, his shell, his covering, that wonderful, curly-haired, ivory-skinned, lanky little home for the _inside_ \--

the inside that was brilliant deductions and infuriating eye-rolls and cold stares but warm smiles in the morning, bright-eyed looks. Harsh words when angered but panting breaths when upset. Quiet hurt. Loneliness. The _before_. Inappropriate laughter. Whispers, "John," "John," "Oh," clutches to hair, shaking thighs whilst being pleasured. _Grinning_. Sacrifice. Leaps off buildings and beautiful waltzes for dreadful days and guns, suicide missions. _There's something I should say._ A heart, heart, what a heart, "John? John, can I...?" A breath. A kiss.

John slid his palm to Sherlock's face, cupped his jaw, bent, breathed. He felt hot breath across his mouth, hot tea-breath, Sherlock's breath, breath from his lungs, from inside.

"I want to," John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's lips, opening him up, getting at the warm, wet tongue behind his teeth, getting into his mouth, inside. 

"Want _you_ ," he managed, moving down to suck at the sweaty skin of his throat, only to immediately drag his mouth back up, towards Sherlock's chin, to his bottom lip. "All of you." He rubbed his nose against Sherlock's, felt the tingle-pressure of their cartilage pressing together, and kissed him again, slow. "The warm bits, and the. cold bits, and. the nice bits and the. arsehole bits." He pulled away abruptly, laughing. "All meanings of the word."

Sherlock smiled; he didn't mean to. John caught it with his mouth and kissed and licked and swallowed it up so that it would be _inside_.

...

The lube on the condom had gone tacky, so John reapplied it awkwardly while he nuzzled and kissed at Sherlock's belly. 

"Ready?" he asked once slicked, settling between Sherlock's thighs and spreading the excess lube on his hand onto Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock nodded and took John by the back of the neck, dragging him down.

...

Sherlock was so unbelievably sexy during intercourse. John could barely hold on, biting off little groans from the moment he was inside.

"All right?" he asked, taking Sherlock's cock and stroking it slowly, up and down, as he breathed and waited for his own arousal-level to settle. He felt Sherlock squeeze around him, felt little flutters of muscles tightening and loosening around his cock as Sherlock got used to the stretch.

Sherlock hummed some semblance of an affirmative and got his legs up around John's waist. His knees dug into ribs, heels pressed against a sweaty lower back. His arms came up to hook around John's shoulders.

"Feel you," Sherlock whispered, shifting a bit, encouraging John to move.

John mirrored, "Feel you," and blew a breath against Sherlock's collarbones. 

Slowly, he began to move, short, gentle, little abortive thrusts into the body under him that caused Sherlock to gasp and squeeze.

" _Oh_ ," John groaned, stretching up in order to get as close to Sherlock's face as possible. "Gonna make you. feel. _so good_."

Sherlock made a strange noise, something low and involuntary from his throat, and tugged at John, pulling him down, kissing and sucking at his cheek, tongue sliding out to touch at the skin. 

"You don't mind?" he asked against spit-wet skin, desperately, secretly, a high-pitched whisper like a question asked at the bedside of a dying man.

"Every bit of you," John answered, kissing Sherlock on the mouth, hard, before pulling back in order to grasp at his hips, in order to move, to thrust, to pass these _feelings_ from his body into Sherlock's.

"Every last. bit of you," he stuttered out, hardly more than a rush of moist heat past his lips. He gripped Sherlock about his slim hips, felt the bones there, the hard lines, complex angles of his pelvis beneath his thumbs as he pressed, squeezed, rocked himself into Sherlock's body over and over again.

His thrusts were quick, punctuation marks of thrusts into the warm, muscular channel of Sherlock's body, and Sherlock gasped upon each movement [bursting gasps, surprised inhales, his lips parted, eyes shut tightly, fingers digging into the sweaty skin just below John's armpits].

" _Shhher_ -" John tried, biting off the word and exhaling loudly out his nose with a muted _uuunnnf_. 

It was heat [his cock, Sherlock's skin], that slick, loud _squelllch_ again, noises of well-lubed latex sliding against and into a tight, damp passage, John's intermittent moans, his aborted _Sherlock, Jesus Christ, Sherlock,_ and Sherlock's gasps for air cut with his occasional little _uuuuuh_ breaths, the slow exhalations with just a hint of voice behind them.

Sherlock took his own cock in hand and began to stroke in time with John's thrusts, eyes open now, watching John watch him, watching this mad man who... _loved_ him [ _Loved him_? Did he love him?].

"You're incredible," John murmured, leaning down onto one elbow again and covering Sherlock's hand in his, helping out with the stroking. "So incred--"

He felt a series of contractions around his cock, quick little squeezes from inside that drove him mad with arousal.

"Oh God," he moaned, trying to swallow around a pant. He was inside Sherlock. _Inside_ him. He felt the heat of him, felt internal muscles, felt their ridges against his cock when he rolled his hips. He was going to feel Sherlock orgasm, feel the start of those contractions, the tightening-loosening, as Sherlock experienced intense pleasure, as he cried out and--

"John," Sherlock said in a voice that would have been calm were it not for the underlying tremble. "John. Joh-- _oh_. Oh."

Sherlock's breath began to speed, and from the inside, John felt him start to pulsate, those beginning ripples that indicated approaching orgasm.

"John," he said again, pressing down hard on John's backside with his ankles, pulling him in, pulling him closer, harder. He felt warm, sticky wetness at his belly, pre-ejaculate leaking out, rubbing against John's skin as the man shifted above him, thrusted.

It was nothing he'd felt before, an orgasm that started deep inside, deeper than usual, that pulsed out of him hot and tight, a burning tingle that made him shake, made him dig his nails into John's shoulders and swear.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock," John pushed out through a groan, aching, thrusting hard, over and over, feeling the contractions around his cock as Sherlock came, feeling the wet bursts between their bodies. " _God_ , that's... That's..."

He shook, all the tension in his body, the building arousal, reaching a sharp peak, sending him over the edge, pulsing out into the condom in a rhythm paralleling the rhythm of Sherlock's own fading orgasm--fiery, painful-pleasure pulses he knew Sherlock could feel

inside.

...

"You're extraordinary," he whispered afterwards, kissing Sherlock's sweaty face.

Sherlock sighed, clearly pleased. "Anal sex is exhausting."

John snorted and rubbed his nose against the skin of Sherlock's shoulder. "You're extraordinary, too, John," he said in his best imitation of Sherlock's deep timbre.

"Whatever. Shut up." Sherlock waved his hand in the air, suppressing a smirk.

John didn't let up, reaching around to playfully pinch at some of the loose skin on Sherlock's side. "You're amazing. Brilliant."

Sherlock groaned exaggeratedly and twisted, trying to free himself from John's tightening embrace.

"And though I may have memorized the entire 'sex' article on Wikipedia, I was nowhere _near_ prepared for your sexual prowess, your expertise in the art of--

 _ **Oof**_."

Sherlock kicked John in the shin and rolled over onto his belly, burying his face in a pile of pillows.

"Arse," John said, smiling.

After a beat of watching Sherlock's back rise and fall with his breaths, after scanning his eyes over his [frankly, beautiful] body, smiling faintly at his backside, which was rather shiny with smeared lube, John crawled over and kissed him softly between the shoulder blades.

"I love you," he said simply, running a hand around Sherlock's hip and petting at his skin.

He felt Sherlock freeze, felt his body go rigid, felt his muscles tighten.

"That was all me," John clarified, voice a whisper and pointedly his own. 

Sherlock twisted, moving until he could look up at John, who was now hovering over him. 

He studied his face, barely breathing, and blinked a series of slow blinks that made John just want to kiss the life out of him [into and through and then back out again, into John, like a shared breath]. He pressed their lips together and kissed, a soft, squeaky peck.

"Not all you," Sherlock murmured. He rolled his lips into his mouth and bit down, nervous.

John smiled softly and pressed his mouth to the warm expanse of skin just below Sherlock's jaw, over the pulse point, feeling the beat of that incredible life pump along beneath his lips.


End file.
